


Little Help From My Friends

by freesalami



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dom-y handjobs, Friends being friendly, M/M, Season 1 Canon, bellarke (mentioned), briller (implied), dropship fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-12 07:12:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7925467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freesalami/pseuds/freesalami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Hard, huh?” Miller says, squeezing his hand against Bellamy's hip until he swears he can feels every whorl of Miller's fingerprints against his skin, “just the day?”</i>
</p><p>Bellamy's a little tense so Miller, good friend that he is, gives him a hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Help From My Friends

**Author's Note:**

> On chapter 3 of my other fic someone (Dafuk) suggested Bellamy have sex with a dude. Thanks for all your great suggestions!

The top floor of the Dropship is temporarily empty and it offers a brief respite from the constant **being needed** of camp. Bellamy kicks sullenly at the wall, both hands braced against the cool metal. The transition from inciting chaos to trying to maintain some kind of baseline order to keep everyone alive and fed is a tough one. Clarke's constant opposition isn't helping his overall stress level. Even when she's right she's infuriating. No, especially when she's right. She doesn't make it easy to maintain control.

He thumps his toe ineffectively against the wall again and drops his forehead against the metal. It's been a long day and even with the delegation of tasks, he works hard. His body aches from effort and too little sleep. Still when he hears the scrape of manhole he straightens quickly, too quickly, some tense muscle in his neck twinges in protest. By the time the door is open Bellamy is standing straight, hips planted casually against the makeshift table. He palms the edge of the table, leans forward slightly. Miller and his beanie pop up over the edge of the manhole and Bellamy lets his shoulders relax. If only a little.

There could still be some catastrophe that he needs to deal with.

“You look tense,” Miller says by way of greeting, hoisting himself gracelessly over the ladder. Bellamy shakes his head and pushes off of the table to look back at it's contents. A bunch of scrap metal crudely forged into rough knives. Not much against the grounders.

“It's been a hard day,” he says, gruff and final. 

Miller's one of the good ones, even handed and he's got a good head on his shoulders. His boots are heavy on the rough metal flooring as he comes up behind Bellamy at the table. Bellamy reflexively shifts to the side, steps away from the table to give Miller room to grab whatever it is he’s looking for. Hopefully not Bellamy himself because he’s just not up to being needed just then. Disasters will have to wait for a little. Miller doesn’t move into the space he vacated, rather he follows Bellamy sideways, cages him in with the width of his chest. His hips bump Bellamy’s and he finds himself trapped in the scant space between Miller and the wall of the drop ship, staring shocked and a little wide eyed at the ugly metal. Miller’s hand presses against the wall near his head, arm over Bellamy’s shoulder and he can feel the heat of his breath when he steps closer. His other hand palms Bellamy’s hip, hot and heavy through the fabric of his pants. 

“Hard, huh?” Miller says, squeezing his hand until Bellamy swears he can feels every whorl of his fingerprints against his skin, “just the day?”

“Nate,” Bellamy says, too off kilter to be embarrassed by the slight stutter. 

“Don’t do that,” Miller says, nudges Bellamy’s head to the side with the bridge of his nose, bites hard on the hinge of his jaw, “I’ve got a boyfriend and you’re in love with Clarke. No reason a handjob has to be more than that.”

“A handjob?” Bellamy says, puts his swagger back in his voice. There’s no point in arguing about the Clarke issue when his brain is already short circuiting at the idea of Miller wrapping a hand around his cock. He moves to turn but Miller steps in closer, would press him flat against the wall if Bellamy didn’t get his hands up to brace on the cool metal in time. When Miller’s teeth drag against his pulse Bellamy gives a whole body shiver. Miller’s hips stutter against him and Bellamy can feel him hard against the curve of his thigh. He swallows hard, chokes a little, “yeah, that works.”

“Yeah,” Miller says and Bellamy feels his smile on the stubble of his jaw, “why don’t you get off your belt, huh?”

It feels weird, trapped between the wall and Miller and his forehead drops against the metal of the Dropship as he reaches down to undo his belt, fumble open the buckle. Miller takes the time to mouth the back of his neck, press hard and hot into the curve of his hips and pant into the sweat damp curls at the base of Bellamy’s neck. With his belt undone and pants unzipped Bellamy’s not totally sure what to do with his hands. His knuckles bump the wall and he settles for bracing them at waist height, feels the stretch of that down the backs of his arms. Miller’s hand slides off his hip, tugs a little mean on the dark curls trailing down from Bellamy’s navel to the base of his cock and fists his hand around Bellamy. 

“Shit,” Bellamy says, drops his head back against Miller’s shoulder and is rewarded with a flash of teeth on the curve of his ear that has his hips stuttering forward into Miller’s fist.

Miller pants a hot breath against Bellamy’s ear and drops his hand lower, cups the weight of his balls. One of them swears low and gruff and vulgar but Bellamy isn’t sure who it is. The first few drags of Miller’s palm are dry, calloused and not as good as they both know it could be. It doesn’t stop Bellamy from moaning with it. When Miller pulls his hand away Bellamy starts, goes to argue it but Miller bands his other arm around Bellamy’s ribs, holds him still as he lifts his palm. His forehead bumps Bellamy’s temple.

“Hey, spit for me,” he says, jiggling one knee forward to prod the back of Bellamy’s thigh. 

It’s a vast improvement. Helped along by an eager bead of precome the spit slicks Miller’s palm as he strokes Bellamy’s cock. The pace he sets is punishing, almost too much from the very start but it gets Bellamy exactly where he wants to be in next to no time flat. It’s embarrassing, really, how ready Bellamy is for this. One hand comes up to grip the arm that Miller has banded around his chest as the other drops to slot his fingers together with Miller’s. He tightens their grip on his cock, adds a rough twist of Miller’s palm over the head of his cock, now earnestly slick with precome, so close Bellamy can taste it choking in the back of his throat. 

When he comes it’s with Miller mouthing wetly below his ear, his hand digging bruises on Bellamy’s shoulder under his tee shirt. It’s a good thing Miller’s as strong as he is, as broad in the shoulders. Because Bellamy goes a little slack with the force of his orgasm, lets Miller take the brunt of his weight in the immediate aftermath. 

“Nice,” Miller says rubbing his fingers together to smear Bellamy’s come across them. When he traces one finger along the swell of Bellamy’s lower lip it seems like the most natural thing to lick it away. Miller huffs a laugh at that, bites the bone behind his ear, “nice.”

Bellamy flexes his empty hands and pulls away, moves to put his cock away but Miller catches his wrists. He smears Bellamy’s own come on his skin and cants his hips forward, digs the hard line of his erection against his ass. It’s Bellamy’s turn to laugh, low and rough. Turn being fair play, after all.

He turns, drags his shoulder against the wall to do it and smirks down at Miller. 

“Want me to give you a hand with that?” he grins, knows he sounds smug. Miller matches his smirk inch for inch and reaches to trace a messy hand across Bellamy’s jaw. His hand drops to cup the side of his neck when he shakes his head. 

“I had something else in mind,” he says and presses Bellamy down to his knees, awkward and tight in the scant space between the wall and the bracket of his hips.


End file.
